


Syllogism

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2013, Post-Series, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara knows that fantasies are harmless. Or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harmless Fantasies For Modern Women

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MMoM.  
> Syllogisms are supposed to have only two premises; Sara’s has three. Bear with me ;)

The details may change minutely, but all in all, it goes like that:

_Michael is sitting on the exam table of her infirmary and she’s standing before him. She’s close, but not close enough that it would be inappropriate during a medical exam. What is inappropriate during a medical exam is the way her stomach warm up and flutter, the images forming at the back of her head, her breathing picking up._

_He doesn’t say anything even though he noticed something. She’ll admit she doesn’t bother much to hide it. He just slides his hand down between them and up her legs. Easy access because she’s been smart stupid enough to wear a skirt today — which never happens for obvious reasons. His fingers press into the cotton of her panties and tease her. (Sometimes, it’s silk panties or lace ones. She won’t go into the trivialities of how he ripped them off her, once, but let’s say that in that respect, cotton panties aren’t so bad.)_

Fantasies are harmless.

Modern women know that fantasies are harmless.

Sara’s a modern woman.

 _Ergo_ , Sara knows that fantasies are harmless.

Whoever first wrote that utter crap in _Cosmo_ or whatever other stupid magazine has never been a prison doctor fantasizing on an inmate.

_He’s not gentle. Careful, considerate, respectful, sure. But not gentle. Straightforward and demanding, too. He sneaks his hand beneath the elastic band of her panties and palms her shortly before delving further. One, two, three fingers in quick succession, pushing in, stretching her, and he smiles at her when she gasps in pain-pleasure._

_She glances at his other hand, resting carelessly on the white paper sheet covering the exam table. His nails are unusually taken care of, especially for a man in his situation, and his fingers so damn long. They respectively dig a bit into the white sheet for support and curl into her without mercy._

She never lets the not-harmless fantasies happen during working hours, nor the waking hours for that matter. She tries to, at least: sometimes, they just pop in. And then, there are the wee hours of the morning, when she’s deep into the comfort and safety of her bed, all safe-guards down...

There also are the working days after those wee hours of the morning, when she has to face him. He’s smiling today, joking, bantering, _this_ close to openly flirting with her.

“Do you need my finger?” he asks as she’s setting her stethoscope aside.

She whirls around and does end up standing before him as he’s sitting on the exam table, his hands splayed on the paper sheet. He raises one of them, forefinger pointed at her and offered, and waits.

She feels her cheeks reddening as bright as her shirt.

“What?” she snaps.

“For testing the sugar level?” He tilts his head and watches her with genuine concern. “Everything’s okay, doctor? You look...”

“I’m hot. Warm,” she corrects quickly. “It’s hot out there and I’m... Yes, everything is okay.”

She smiles and fans herself with her hand in an attempt to demonstrate how the suddenly hot weather is making her uncomfortable.

His eyes move down her neck, to her shoulders and then her bare arms — hot weather, showing more skin, dumb enough not to wear her lab coat — and the look on his face suggests that he agrees with her first statement about her being hot. In a literal way.

“Yes? No?” he asks moving his finger from right to left, back and forth.

She stares at the proffered finger and can’t help wondering how he would react if she leaned in and took it into her mouth. That’s very unprofessional, and the evidence that fantasies are not, in fact, harmless when they collide with reality.

_He holds her in the palm of his hand: the heel of his hand pressing hard against her crotch, his fingers deep inside her, crooking, thrusting, playing with her until she slumps forward and rests her forehead against his. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she doesn’t try to be kissed. He’s a man with a one-tracked mind and he’s focusing on lower parts of her anatomy right now; there’s no room for kissing._

_He wraps his free arm around her waist to support her. Very welcomed. Very welcomed too, the barely-there touch of his thumb between her thighs. The fingers inside her are nice and good, but this, this is just the perfect... “Don’t tease,” she groans. Because he’s a teasing asshole, who suggests but doesn’t quite act on it, who promises but delays the delivering. At least, until she moans against his mouth, high and needy and begging, and the next second, that damn thumb is stroking her clit, circling it, lightly at first, then with growing pressure._

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I ran a test last week.”

“All right.”

It’s fast. She barely has the time to register what happens. In a swift gesture, he grabs her wrist and moves her hand to his mouth, turns it around and kisses the inside of her palm. The kiss is soft but so-not-innocent — warm breath, soft lips and the faintest brush of tongue — and she jerks her hand away in reflex, before doing something stupid.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face as flushed as hers was minutes ago. “I don’t know what... I’m sorry.”

_She comes hard and fast when he stops teasing, holding his eyes and panting in his space. For a few minutes, the pleasure erases any thread of guilt, has her arch and twist, makes her breathing deep and strong when she goes lax and sated._

_There_ is _guilt. But not enough not to allow her hands to wander down at the wee hours of the morning. And not because of the fantasies themselves but because of what they mean and because of the potential mess on their trail._

“Don’t worry. It’s hot out there, and I bet it’s even worse in Gen Pop. It messes with our heads.”

“Yes. The heat.”

Her eyes fall on his hand still resting on the exam table. Long, elegant, not as relaxed as it usually is.

He’s a man in jail. He’s a young, fit man in jail. She has a pretty good idea of what kind of use that long and elegant hand is put every now and then, perhaps late at night, perhaps on the wee hours of the morning. Perfectly natural, perfectly healthy.

She tries not to wonder what imagery he summons in those moments.

END


	2. Fluffy Reality for Modern Couples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a small addendum to Syllogism (Harmless Fantasies for Modern Women) / snippet for another take on the same bunny.

Modern couples may share fantasies every now and then.

Michael is one half of a modern couple.

 _Ergo_ , Michael is fine with Sara sharing her fantasies.

(More than fine, really.)

“You’re a wicked, wicked woman,” he whispers into her ear. He’s standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her impeding her freedom of movement.

That’s one fantasy she _didn’t_ have, him restraining her; she kind of regrets it, now, because it’s a nice one.

“Objectifying inmates. Fantasizing about jumping their bones.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was a prison doctor. You really want to compare notes on being objectified, Scofield?” He’s sneakily finding his way under her dress; she has no difficulty picturing how this is going to end. “It was only _your_ bones, and it wasn’t like that,” she adds unnecessarily.

“I know.” He kisses her neck. “I know.” The kiss is sweet and tender, a stark contrast with his fingers pulling her panties down — blue cotton for the record — gliding through the curly hair at the V of her thighs, and entering her in one cautiously harsh thrust.

She pants and bends forward in his embrace, shocked and pleased, her amused arousal morphing into bright lust.

“I did it too,” he admits in a velvety-dirty voice that sends shivers down her spine.

“Objectifying inmates and wanting to jump their bones?”

He bites her shoulder in punishment. “You could be nicer with me about that. I shared a cell with Sucre. The man snores and he dreams out loud. It wasn’t easy to evoke... pleasant images.”

He doesn’t seem to hold her a grudge for her cheekiness, that said, because he’s doing things to her down there that have her writhe and make her knees wobble.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads.

“Never.” His fingers easily slide deeper into her. She’ll be embarrassed later — or you know, probably not — at how wet and open she’s become for him within the span of a few confidences. “You feel so good.” His tone lowers, roughens. “Better than I’ve ever imagined back then.”

There’s an actual timidity in his admission, as if he imagines that she believes he’s only had sweet, clean thoughts about her.

“Tell me about it. What did you picture?”

He’s hard against the small of her back, but she knows he’s not going there for now. With the press of his body and the urgency of his caresses, she can feel his determination to bring her to her release the way they’ve started it. This is mainly for her, even if he definitely finds his fair share of pleasure in it.

“Pinning you against the wall of your infirmary,” he starts coyly. She grins. Classical. “Having you straddle me on that exam table.” More grinning because it was expected; he likes it when she’s on top. “And then...” She closes her eyes. She knows that voice, that rhythm, slow and intense; she knows the effect it has on her. “... out of Fox River, a huge bed in a nice room and all the time in the word to fuck you senseless, over and over again...”

She can’t hear the rest of it, not with blood rushing through her temples as she jolts on his hand and comes, longue waves of pleasure arching her into him. She’s grateful for the arm holding her steadily, for the whispering into her ear, for the way he gently turns her around and kisses her when she stops shaking. She grabs onto him and laughs, tells him that he’s damn good with his hands — but he already knows that, doesn’t he? — and eventually realizes he’s still unraveling his threads of fantasies. Or perhaps they’re plans; something else he’s good with, plans.

“... maybe I would tie your hands to the bedpost to have you at my mercy? Not that I would _show_ any mercy.”

She’s a wicked woman — his words, not hers — so she has no qualm pressing herself hard against him and smirking when he groans at the contact.

“You know, we have the huge bed in the nice room and all the time in the world. If you manage to hold yourself together long enough to actually tie my hands to the bedpost, I’m all yours.”

END


End file.
